Sweet Oblivion
by Diamond-04
Summary: John Watson was an alcoholic. He knew he was. Well, actually, pretty much everyone he was in talking terms with knew he was. Post Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson was an alcoholic. He knew he was. Well, actually, pretty much everyone he was in talking terms with knew he was.

It had been four months since Sherlock had came back from the dead, and only two since he had returned to the apartment –John wouldn't allow it before, but money was getting a bit too tight and he did owe Mrs. Hudson about half a year's rent.

Things between them were difficult to say the least. After many long, sleepless nights in which Sherlock tried to explain himself and John would go back and forth between sitting in his chair in complete silence and yelling bloody murder at his roommate, John could see –theoretically- that Sherlock had had no other option. Faking his death was not something he had done out of choice, but complete and utter necessity. Still…

Sherlock had been gone three years give or take a few months. In that period of time, John had not only taken up drinking –which he did not usually do, since he'd really taken a dislike for alcohol since his sister first showed up drunk at their parents' house in their teens- he had also begun doing it on a regular basis. So regular, in fact, that in those three years that Sherlock was absent, he had been hospitalized once for chest pain, twice for seizures, and once because someone found him unconscious on a parking lot and decided to call an ambulance when they couldn't move their car.

John had hated alcohol for years, yes. It had caused him enough trouble for a lifetime with Harry, and even though he did go out for a beer every once in a while, he hadn't been properly drunk in such a long time he didn't even remember when that was. College, probably. Centuries. He hated alcohol because he hated what it had done to his sister, but he didn't hate being buzzed, not one bit. He liked it a bit too much, to be quite honest, and that was what had made him virtually stop drinking all those years ago; ending up like her was a very real possibility, and one he wanted to avoid at all costs. The cartoonish irony of it all brought a cynical smile to his face every time he thought about it now. Well, not that his worst nightmare was a reality it wouldn't help to deny it; he was a full blown alcoholic. He was a bit disappointed with himself at first, but it was nothing a nice warm glass of gin couldn't solve.

They were having Christmas dinner when everyone else fund out. Or, more accurately, when everyone else, who obviously already knew, heard it said aloud for the first time.

They had been drinking wine and champagne and perhaps something else, but John couldn't remember what it was at that point, and it tasted fantastic anyway. But soon his glass was empty, and the bottles on the table were empty, and he stumbled to the kitchen to fetch some more.

They were nowhere to be found. As he moved stuff around the fridge and the counters, he yelled at no one in particular.

-Does anyone know where the rest of the booze is?

-Shouldn't you know?

Sherlock's voice was clear as water above the noise of the party.

-What do you mean?

He walked back to the table, empty handed.

-Well, you live here and you are an alcoholic so it's simple math, really.

There was a sudden silence that wouldn't be concealed. John blinked twice, and then once more. Something that could be interpreted as a smile appeared on his face.

-Wow. That's a bit forward, coming from the junkie.

If there had been silence before, now there was utter stillness. Sherlock's face didn't show any signs of being affected in the least by John's words. If anything, he looked a bit confused.

-I don't see how my addiction has anything to do with this. It wouldn't help me know where the rest of the bottles are, and it certainly won't erase the fact that you are, indeed, and alcoholic.


	2. Chapter 2

John had yelled something at Sherlock that shut him up long enough for him to leave the house in a blind rage. He didn't remember what it was, which was unfortunate, because he could have used it against his roommate if he was ever that annoying again. Two blocks from the apartment, he noticed he had forgotten his coat. Fuck. It had begun snowing again, and his sweater was going to get soaked if he just kept walking outside. He checked his wallet. Well, there was probably enough money to hit the pub, and get wasted enough to punch Sherlock on the bloody nose if he showed up and kept meddling in his business. An alcoholic! He had simply stated that John was an alcoholic in the middle of the Christmas table, the bloody idiot. Soon enough he was telling this to an unknown bartender. The man didn't reply, just smiled to himself.

John didn't know what he was drinking. It was blue. He chuckled to himself. One had to be pretty drunk to order a blue drink, he thought. He finished it in one chug, and tried his best not to give into the urge to lay his head on the table. He was so tired, and he didn't know which way the apartment was. He had spent all his money, so a cab was out of the question. He raised his head from his empty wallet and saw Sherlock sitting opposite him.

-How long have you been here?

-A while. I brought your coat and you told me I should stick it up my ass. We then had a short conversation about anal insertion. And now you've been searching your wallet for money for three whole minutes. I've told you several times that I can pay for the cab.

John looked at himself. Oh. When had he put his coat on?

-Well, then what are you bloody waiting for? Let's go.

He stood way too fast. Thank God Sherlock had the reflexes of a praying mantis on crack. John noticed that his face stopped incredibly close to the ground. He laughed out loud when he felt himself being lifted. He was swaying from side to side, looking right at Sherlock's butt. He may have pinched it. And then he closed his eyes, and didn't open them for hours and hours.


	3. Chapter 3

When John woke up he was genuinely surprised his stomach was still attached to the rest of his body; it definitely felt like he could have very well thrown it up with the rest of its contents inside the little blue bucket that rested by the side of his bed. He knew Sherlock had put it there, because he sure as hell didn't even remember getting to the apartment. Well, at least the bloody bastard was kind enough not to let him choke on his own vomit; he had to give him that one.

The knock on the door was enough to make him truly fear his head would explode. Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock walked in with a glass of water and laid it wordlessly on John's nightstand. John sat up and took a careful sip; he was beyond thirsty, but really didn't want to get sick in front of his flat mate. Not that he would miss the bucket full of vomit two feet away, but still. He put the glass down, raising his eyebrow at Sherlock.

-Nothing stronger left from last night then? Oh, wait! That's right, you probably don't want to enable the 'alcoholic', am I right?

John thought he saw Sherlock's lip curl upwards the tiniest bit, but he couldn't have sworn on it. With a muttered curse he got out of the bed and into the toilet, where he helped himself to an aspirin and a digestive, which he washed down with the last drops of the hipflask he kept inside the cabinet. He showered to the best of his current abilities and headed back to bed, only to find a distressed looking Sherlock sitting on the edge of it.

-I just thought you should know.

John crossed his arms and leaned on the wall with a sigh.

-What are you even babbling about?

-When you are an addict you are always the last one to find out. I should know.

John simply shook his head and headed for the kitchen. If he was going to listen to Sherlock jabber, he at least needed to be much less sober. Sherlock walked in on him pouring himself the biggest glass of vodka.

-I'm not telling you to stop.

-And you shouldn't.

The noise that the liquid made as it poured distracted Sherlock for half a second.

-I'm just stating a fact, and one you've been trying to ignore for way too long. John…

He walked closer. John could see that he was fighting the urge to tear the glass out of his hand. He didn't though; he stood there, inches from John and his ridiculously big glass and stared at him, biting his lower lip.

-That's too much, that's... you are going to make yourself sick again.

John raised his eyebrows and walked away, taking another sip.

-So you don't want me to stop drinking, yet you are still talking about this. What is it that you want from me then?

He finished his glass with the next chug, and realized Sherlock had been right; his stomach hadn't been ready to handle it. He swallowed back his own sick.

-I do want you to stop; I simply know I can't force you.

John sat down on the couch and concentrated on not vomiting on the carpet. If he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he knew Sherlock was right. He knew he had been ignoring what was going with him and his drinking on for months now. And he knew he was headed down a bad path if he continued that way. He simply couldn't see another way.

-I wanted to tell you I'm sorry.

Sherlock's voice seemed to come from far, far away. John held his head in his hands, still trying to make the room stop spinning.

-I'm so sorry for the part I played in this. I really am.

John turned to him. He couldn't see tears in his eyes, his voice hadn't faded either, but John couldn't avoid seeing how bad he was hurting. Sherlock was, sometimes, readable like an open book, and as bad as John wanted to ignore it, the look on Sherlock's face was affecting him more than he thought it would.

-But you are absolutely right. I can't enable this anymore.

John tried to make sense of his words. He sat up straighter, a tinge of fear rising on his chest.

-I've cleared your debt with Mrs. Hudson, but I'll be moving out to a smaller place soon. She was… too emotional to be here and tell you this herself, but she won't be allowing you to stay here any longer. Unless, of course…

John knew what was coming. He forced himself to swallow.

-Unless?

-Unless you accept to get treatment. Then you'll have my support for as long as you need it.

John wouldn't have expected any less from Sherlock. He had been manipulating him for months now, and he knew it, but Sherlock was not an idiot. He was an addict himself, and he knew what needed to be done. Under different circumstances, John would have applauded him. This time he simply chuckled to himself.

-You really must be kidding.

The tinge of hope on Sherlock's face faded incredibly fast.

-Not in the least.

-Then you've got mad. Go on, go away and leave me, see if I care. I didn't the first time and I sure as hell won't this time.

No one said a thing for a while. Then Sherlock spoke. John could have sworn his voice did break this time.

-I'll be out of here by tomorrow.


End file.
